


After.

by BellarmyBlake



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: (a bit??) idek, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Post 1x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellarmyBlake/pseuds/BellarmyBlake
Summary: Frank visits Karen. After.





	After.

**Author's Note:**

> i write Kastle fic now. that’s where i’m at. i’m just rolling with it at this point. this is the first fic i’ve written in months, and i’m pretty damn proud of it. these two kill me.

He goes to her. After.

He’s still black and blue. He still limps a little. It still hurts when he breathes. His ears are still ringing with the deafening silence of a war that has ended. But he goes to her. He owes her that at least.

An explanation. A goodbye. _Something_.

She opens the door to him, and gasps when her eyes land on his face, taking in his wounds and his gait, and recognizing, as she always could, a man in pain. “ _Frank_ ,” she says, her voice cracking as she led him inside and orders him to sit. She brings him one of the largest mugs of coffee he has ever seen, and he laughs despite the entire situation. The ringing in his ears is drowned by her laughter, and for a moment, they sit and share the silence. He feels her eyes on him when he takes a sip, and he wants to look at her, but _can’t_ , because he knows he’ll have to talk, knows she’ll have questions. For the first time in days, he doesn’t want the silence to end. Doesn’t want to have to explain himself.

“Is it over?” is all she asks, in the end.

“Yeah,” he replies, taking another swig of his coffee. Not knowing what else to say.

She takes a sip, too, her mouth hardening, her eyes ablaze. “Good.”

She stands up and moves to sit beside him. He fears more questions, accusations, maybe a few tears, but all she does is lean her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. He freezes for a moment. He remembers blaring alarms, and pain all over his body, his temple throbbing from a recent gunshot, blood dripping from his fingers onto an elevator floor. He remembers her hands on his arm, her eyes on him, remembers the way she leaned in. How he’d thought she was going to kiss him. Or perhaps he was going to kiss her. How their foreheads touched instead, and everything became quiet for just a second. How she calmed his frayed nerves. A silent apology, a quiet forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so quiet he wonders if she can ever hear him.

She places a hand on his, squeezing it ever so lightly. “Me, too.”

Frank leans back against the couch cushions, lifting his arm to allow her to slide into his embrace, and she does, without question. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and leans his forehead on top of her blonde hair, breathing in the scent of her cheap shampoo. His arm is large enough to envelop her entire body, and he fears he might break her, hurt her, too, like he hurts everyone he cares about. But then her hand rests over his heart, and those thoughts cease, vanish, disappear. All he can think about is his heartbeat, beating strongly against her palm, reassuring her that he really is here, alive and well, still breathing. He lays his hand over hers, laying her finger on her pulse point, reassuring himself of the same. They sit there for a few moments, or perhaps days, and Frank can’t describe the feeling that courses through his body with every breath she takes, every beat he counts. He can’t remember the last time he felt this. Maybe he had never felt like this.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she whispers, after the sun has gone down, and she wakes from a slumber. He had been watching her sleep, his thoughts running freely, wild ideas of running away with her, of kissing her, of abandoning her, of leaving her for her own safety. Of looking for a fight.

She looks up at him, her big blue eyes shining, and he can’t not answer honestly. “Yeah,” he mutters, and she rests her head on his chest again.

“Will you come back?”

It takes him a while to answer, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he doesn’t know how to say it. “I will, it’ll be the only thing I’ll be working towards.” He presses a light kiss to the top of her head.

She smiles against him. “Where will you go?”

“I won’t go far,” he promises, “but I need to figure my shit out. I need to...I gotta fix myself. Learn how to deal with...not having a – a war to fight.”

She sits up once more, and stretches out a hand to touch his face. Her fingers burn on his skin, and he closes his eyes, taking in the burn, feeling her soft skin against his as she explores all the bumps and bruises. She’s so gentle, so kind, so strong, and he does not deserve her. Does not deserve her empathy, nor her kindness.

He startles when her lips touches his ever so slightly, asking nothing, giving comfort. “I’ll be waiting for you, Frank,” she says, and it’s a promise, her voice so strong and sure he cannot do anything but believe her.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, taking her hands in his and pressing them to his lips.

“Shut up,” she advises gently. They both look at the time, the hand nearing midnight, and he sighs. He doesn’t want to leave, knows he has to. She mirrors his sigh, and she smiles sadly. They move, simultaneously, to the door, her hand tightly clasped around his. “Can I ask one favour?” she asks softly, her hand on the doorknob.

“Anything,” he says gruffly. They stand in her small hallway, barely four inches apart, the darkness surrounding them, sharing the air between them.

She leans her forehead against his again and he closes his eyes, “Let me know you’re alive, now and again? Just a sign is fine. I don’t want to wonder if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Deal,” he says softly. He hears the door open, and knows it’s time. It’s harder than he imagined it would be, leaving her. He shouldn’t be surprised, it’s been difficult all the times before now. But it feels...almost useless, leaving her. He’s safe. She’s safe. War’s over. But he knows he can’t come home. Not yet. Not before he fixes himself, becomes deserving of her. He wants to stay, but he wants to deserve her, and he can only do that if he leaves now. He takes a deep breath, kisses her forehead gently, and says, “Goodbye.”

He’s out the door, knowing if he doesn’t move, he’ll stay. He’s walking down the hall when he hears her whisper, “Bye,” before her door closes and he’s alone.

At once, the ringing silence returns, and he nearly cries out. His trigger fingers spasms, and he grabs it to keep it from doing so. And suddenly, amazingly, he smiles. He has something to fight for now, knows what he needs to do, and where he wants to go.

He steps outside into the November cold, and he looks up at her window reflexively. White roses are standing in her window pane. Another smile crosses his lips, before he turns his back and starts walking.

He doesn’t deserve her. But he plans to.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! leave a kudos or a comment, i'd love it!


End file.
